And They Rested on the Seventh Day
by journalxxx
Summary: A little variation on the things said and done on the first day of the rest of their lives.


To think that it had all started as a hobby of sorts. A wild bet on and against himself, just for the fun of it.

Crowley hadn't thought much of the job he'd done in the Garden of Eden, at first. To be fair, he was still convinced that most of the responsibility for that big mishap fell on God Herself and Her inexplicable - pardon, _ineffable_ \- decision to dangle juicy bits of edible forbidden knowledge right in front of people who had literally been born yesterday. Honestly, what else could have happened? Crowley was sure one of the two humans would have given in to curiosity anyway, sooner or later: his intervention had simply sped up the process.

But Crowley's superiors had been positively enthusiastic about it. God's new and supposedly best creations, twisted and corrupted and exiled in less than a week since the beginning of the world? An astonishing success for the dark forces, they had said, very well done Crawly, you shall hereby be hailed as The Tempter (a title that would be handed out very freely in the centuries to come, in fact, since he had basically invented a whole new and very busy line of work for the entire Underworld). They had been so keen on putting his supposed talents of persuasion to good use that they had assigned him on permanent Earth surveillance duty, keeping an eye on things and easing the slippery slope of other innocent souls to the abyss. A simple enough job, he thought, and he wasn't at all displeased with the idea of spending most of his time away from Hell. The place was, well, hellish.

He had been quite surprised to meet the Guardian of the Eastern Gate there as well, apparently tending to the exact opposite task as Crowley's. What were the odds, uh? But in Aziraphale's case, Crowley couldn't help but feel that the new office was meant more as a demotion rather than as a reward. The angel didn't seem exactly… suited to field work, so to speak. He was definitely the kind of guy who'd deal better with paperwork or with performing celestial harmonies or with whatever those guys up there got up to, these days - rather than with acting as an incognito emissary of the Light. He was simply too soft-hearted. It clearly pained him to witness the daily struggles of mankind without being able to relieve them, if not in a very roundabout and indirect way. He would have gladly handed out miracles and blessings as promptly as he had relinquished his flaming sword, Crowley thought, if he hadn't directly been ordered to stick to spreading 'positive influence'.

He was a queer one, Aziraphale, but overall rather amusing to have around. And after the first mostly accidental meetings, Crowley had started to notice several very, very interesting things about him.

First of all, the angel was a sinner. And a rather nonchalant one too.

The first sin Crowley noticed was pride. Now, pride was objectively quite intrinsic to all angelic beings, to some extent, with their perpetual holier-than-thou attitude and their unbending illusion of absolute righteousness. Aziraphale wasn't an exception. He could have very well avoided Crowley, if he really thought so lowly of him and his shady dealings, but he didn't. He met him, he primly and oh so very graciously tolerated his company, he pointedly corrected his faulty views on creation and the universe with the self-satisfied attitude of a conceited schoolmaster. It made Crowley's skin, well, crawl. And he had this ridiculous habit of pointing out, at randomly fitting points during any discussion, that he, Aziraphale, was an angel and he, Crowley, was a demon, and therefore blah blah. He did that _really_ often, inexplicably so. It wasn't like either of them was going to forget what they were, after all. And it wasn't like he needed to repeat that at frequent intervals to make sure that some undefined and distracted external audience was aware of their standing in the universe either. It was just plainly dumb and irritating. Crowley had taken to address him as 'angel' more often than with his proper name, out of sheer sarcasm. Sadly Aziraphale hadn't taken particular notice.

Another very glaring sin Aziraphale keenly committed was gluttony. Oh, what a glutton he was. The first time Crowley had met him 'socially', he had been astounded to notice that Aziraphale actually _ate_. If his body was anything like Crowley's, and Crowley was sure it was, it was conveniently free from most of the intentional design flaws God had installed on humans after Adam and Eve's escape, such as illness, hunger and tiredness. Neither Aziraphale nor Crowley needed any sustenance or sleep (although Crowley had quickly taken a liking to the latter activity - but _he was a demon_, Aziraphale would have pointed out with his most slappable face, so he was allowed as many indulgences as he wanted). Even the most gluttonous human had some sort of excuse, what with needing to eat to survive and, while one was at it, he may as well do it decently, to build the temple of his body in the best possible way and so on and so forth. It was a very flimsy and poor excuse, considering the sort of folks who usually resorted to it, but humans clung to such moralistic drivel like limpets. Aziraphale didn't even have that tiny pretext on his side. He ate (and drank) without any need to, and he did it often and with much gusto, out of sheer pleasure. If that wasn't the epitome of gluttony, Crowley was an anteater.

And, after a few centuries, a hint of greed began to emerge too. It was a very specific sort, aimed at very specific material possessions, namely those that had to do with writing. Aziraphale had been inordinately proud when humans had begun to carve their funny little thoughts and grocery lists on very impractical clay tablets, he had called it a revolutionary intuition, surely sparked by divine goodwill. Crowley's reaction had been more along the lines of a whole-body shrug. Aziraphale was fond of reading and, when it became possible, he even started collecting reading material. Papyrus, parchments, scrolls, anything he could find. When books started to become a thing, the angel ogled them like misguided shepherds ogled golden calves. He acquired them very sparingly and with a trace of guilt at first, when books were rare and their production was lengthy and expensive and holding onto some tomes for his own personal enjoyment effectively diminished the amount of knowledge available to the world at large. But after the press was invented, oooh boy. Yes, the excessive and self-serving accumulation of literary material goods was definitely among Aziraphale's faults.

But that was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

In fact, for all his preaching and sternly-worded proclamations of faith, Aziraphale had perplexities. That much was glaringly obvious. Ineffability perplexed him, even though he unerringly presented it as the ultimate argument against Crowley's own perplexities, whenever they ventured to discuss celestial politics. It had been perplexing him, at least to a certain extent, since the apple incident, Crowley was sure of that. And that was odd in itself. Crowley had believed that, after the Rebellion, Heaven had been purged of any angelic creature who wasn't a hundred percent committed and trusting in God's cause, but Aziraphale seemed troubled to a visible degree, at times. Crowley had known Aziraphale only very superficially before falling, and he couldn't quite say if his doubts were a recent development or not.

So, a peculiar idea started to slither in the corners of Crowley's oft bored mind.

What if, he thought, what if I could make this angel fall?

The premises for the evil deed were all there. Aziraphale already committed almost half of the deadly sins of his own accord, whether he knew it or not. And he had reservations, however intimate and rationalized, about God's plan. That was all it had taken for Crowley himself to fall, after all. Just a couple of reservations and hanging around the wrong people. Crowley could provide both of those factors very easily.

It was, admittedly, mere speculation. Crowley wasn't even sure it was possible for angels to fall after the Rebellion - something had seriously shifted in the balance of the universe back then, everyone had noticed. But the concept was absurdly inviting. Who else, after all, aside from the Morning Star Himself, could boast coaxing angels into corruption? It would be a stunning accomplishment in any demon's curriculum, wouldn't it? Forget about apples and tempting feeble human minds, that would be real bragging material. The more he thought about it, the stronger the itch got. In addition, despite his earlier doubts, Crowley had discovered himself quite naturally adept to that whole temptation business. He had thought his success with Eve a bit of a fluke, born of very favorable circumstances: deep down she already wanted that fruit, and so did her companion. They were already leaning towards disobedience, and all Crowley himself had to do was just to give the both of them a little nudge in that direction.

But then, he had found out that that principle was valid for _all_ humans. Every human, literally every one of them, was inevitably attracted to Evil, at least a little bit. In some cases he had to resort to some delicate manoeuvres and subtle approaches to nurture that twisted tendency, in others he simply had to knock on an open door. A very easy and straightforward job, indeed.

But would it be that easy with a full-fledged angel? Presumably not. How should he go about it, then? He supposed that approaching Aziraphale with a rapid fire of existential questioning would be slightly too on the nose. Besides, _ineffability_. How did you even question that? It's a brick wall of suspended disbelief and logic denial. No, theology speculations weren't the right answer, only the most mind-numbingly boring one.

Crowley decided to roll up his sleeves and start with the basics. Adding the remaining deadly sins on Aziraphale's list of misconducts would be a solid start, he deliberated. Whittling away at a soul's integrity bit by bit was all the rage back then, in terms of temptation tactics. He'd slowly erode the angel's rectitude as if he was your average human, and then he'd see where he could go from there. And he would take it nice and easy, spreading his influence over centuries, millennia if necessary. He wouldn't risk ruining his chances by revealing his hand too soon. He had picked the most promising one among the four remaining sins, and he had started plotting.

He could still remember the indescribable sensation he had felt when he had succeeded, sometime around 1000 AD. It had indeed taken centuries of discreet suggestions and proposals, refuted firmly and scornfully at first, but with less and less passion over time, until Aziraphale had finally given in to the Arrangement, with nothing more than a curt and tense nod. Crowley had offered his assistance first, obviously. He was already about to head to Byzantium to tend to his own business, so he thought he may as well take care of Aziraphale's too. Just an innocent favour, free of charge. Obviously, if for fairness' sake the angel felt like returning said favour in the future, Crowley'd be obliged, but really, no pressure whatsoever.

Unexpectedly, unlike all the previous times, the angel had accepted. It felt like a minor victory in itself, even though it was only the first step. Naturally Aziraphale followed him, although not quite as discreetly as he thought. And he followed Crowley the next time as well, and the third- the third he didn't.

Now, _that_ felt like a triumph. Crowley's skin had begun to tingle in sheer excitement when he had ascertained that the third time he had offered his assistance to Aziraphale, the angel had simply _trusted_ him to carry out the task as requested. Not that Crowley wanted or could avoid doing what he'd been asked - their respective head offices may be careless about smaller details, but they were fond of keeping scores. If the holy work hadn't been performed, Heaven would have noticed, therefore Aziraphale would have been reprimanded, and Crowley would have lost that hard-earned trust. What was notable, however, was that it had taken only two trips for the angel to trust completely a demon to perform honest, divine work. It was foolish of Aziraphale not to check that he would, it was lazy of him not to perform the job himself, as he'd been ordered, as he'd undoubtedly report he had. It was deception to his superiors, it was negligence, but more importantly, it was _sloth_.

It was a heady rush of adrenaline after a long period of forced calm, the kind of exhilaration a skilled hunter feels after waiting for hours - centuries, in that case - for the prey to fall into an aptly placed trap. It was indeed possible to tempt an angel, and he, Crowley the Tempter, the Snake of Eden, had managed to do it. It was _riveting_. That sensation of well-earned success alone would have been enough to brighten his days and put a spring in his step for the next century, but the best was yet to come, and it was something Crowley wasn't even planning of.

He had been joking when he had suggested that Aziraphale should be the one to carry out the next bunch of long-distance duties for the both of them. He wasn't expecting him to accept by a long shot, definitely not so soon at least - but he did. Sheepishly and uncomfortably, Aziraphale had listened to Crowley's instructions and headed off with a half-muttered promise to 'see what he could do'. That was a surprise, although Crowley didn't believe for one second that he would see the job done. An angel (and not just any angel, _Aziraphale_), doing Satan's work? What a joke. He'd chicken out of it before dawn, for sure, and either later inform Crowley that he had met with obstacles, or pretend to have forgotten about the whole conversation. And indeed, after seeing neither hide nor hair of the angel for the next month, Crowley assumed Aziraphale had just done that. The demon had then made the hundred-kilometre trip to take care of the business personally, only to find the couple of married lovers (married to other people, that is) already in the throes of the deep reciprocal passion that had been haunting them for the past three years, their families in turmoil and their small town in the middle of nowhere now enjoying the best bout of spicy gossip since that peculiar incident with the shepherd and his sheep forty years earlier.

Crowley was absolutely flabbergasted. That was much, _much_ better than he'd even dared to expect. He felt like he'd basically already done it. It was going to work. If it had taken so little effort to convince an angel to tempt humans instead of blessing them, it was only a matter of time before Aziraphale eventually succumbed completely to Crowley's scheme. Only a matter of time! He'd keep working on it, slowly and patiently, in a world that would soon start moving forward at an increasing and unimaginable pace, treating Aziraphale like his personal pet project, tackling one sin at a time. What was left? Lust, envy, wrath - oof, wrath was going to be a tough one, wasn't it? The strongest negative emotion he'd ever seen Aziraphale display was 'mildly peeved' - but it would definitely, definitely work. He wouldn't rush it, he'd wait for the perfect occasion to land in his lap and he'd seize it, to drag the angel to ruin in careful, calculated steps.

That night Crowley had gotten fantastically, gloriously, immeasurably drunk, and had dragged literally the entire village into his personal celebration, thanks to the inexplicable appearance of a good dozen abandoned carts on the main road, filled with jugs of excellent wine from the local vineyards. The huge, impromptu party that followed would have put Bacchus himself to shame, and it provided the village spinsters with enough gossip about the many depraved deeds that had been consumed on that night for the next 378 years, give or take.

That was roughly a thousand years ago.

Funny, Crowley thought as he was sprawled on an unimportant bench in an unimportant road of Lower Tadfield, Oxfordshire, feeling and looking like a puppet with cut strings. Funny, Crowley thought as he was looking up into the cloudless and starry sky of a world that hadn't ended, how much things can change in just a thousand years.

Aziraphale stood up when two round headlights appeared at the end of the road, and glanced curiously at Crowley when he didn't do the same. Slowly, with immense effort and groaning like a metal crane bent by a gigantic hand, Crowley gathered his strewn limbs and rearranged them vertically as well. The angel and the demon climbed on a bus that wasn't going to Oxford, walked past an unresponsive conductor that wasn't asking for tickets, and spent most of the trip sharing a bottle of wine whose quality vastly outmatched its price tag and whose capacity had long since exceeded the promised 750 millilitres.

The repetitive scenery of the the dark English countryside let Crowley's mind wander back into the past. It occurred to him that it had been roughly 600 years since the last time Aziraphale had set foot into his house. You could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times the angel had ever accepted to visit his 'den of iniquity' (Aziraphale's words, c. 310 AD), and always very briefly. They had always preferred meeting in public venues anyway, until Crowley had decided that Aziraphale's bookshop definitely counted as one and had taken the habit of dropping by for the occasional drink.

The invitation had slipped out of Crowley's mouth easily, unthinkingly, while they were waiting for the bus. And, honestly, how could he not offer hospitality in such circumstances? All of the angel's earthly possessions, including his very house, had gone up in flames. What was Crowley supposed to do, let him go to a random public bathroom, lock himself into a cubicle and miracle the inside of it into Croesus' mansion? Seriously. Just because he was a demon, it didn't mean he was utterly uncivil. Still, Aziraphale had taken up on Crowley's suggestion with less hesitation that he'd expected. At that point, all Crowley could do was hoping that Hell hadn't sent reinforcements after Hastur and Ligur's failed attempt at 'collecting' him, and an apartment to invite Aziraphale into still existed in the first place... Oh, well. Worst case scenario, they'd hijack two cubicles.

"How long do you think we have," Aziraphale said quietly, interrupting the disorganized flow of Crowley's thoughts, "before they'll decide to come after us?"

"Heaven and Hell, you mean?" Crowley answered slowly, syllables sticking to his tongue. "I don't know, a while. I bet they have some serious internal mess to deal with first. Disappointed warmongers and whatnot. Bigger priorities than us."

"But they will sort that out eventually." Aziraphale stretched his arm towards Crowley, hand open in a muted request for the bottle. "And then what? I doubt they'll leave any rogue agents be."

"...Eh. They might, you know? The kid- whoops." Crowley let go of the bottle when he felt Aziraphale's fingers brush his own, but the glass slipped from both their grasps. Aziraphale blinked, and the bottle froze in midair a few centimetres above the floor. He calmly bent down to fetch it as Crowley continued. "The kid told us not to worry."

"But do you think he has the power to grant us protection from both Reigns?"

Crowley shrugged. "He's the boss' son. And he just stopped the bloody apocalypse, if you haven't noticed. He has power, all right. That's good enough insurance for me."

Aziraphale hummed pensively, his gaze lost out of the window. Crowley watched him take a measured sip, and then clean distractly the neck of the bottle with a handkerchief. His movements were quiet, harmonious, steady. Everything about Aziraphale was, and always had been. Crowley's whole, brilliant temptation plan was centered on the expectation that sins would change his angelic nature, that they would change _him_. Instead, what had happened was the exact opposite. As the decades and centuries went by, as their meetings grew less and less 'business' oriented and turned into genuine divertissement, Aziraphale wasn't changed by the sins: the _sins_ were changed by him. A tasty nibble of food wasn't a temptation any more, but a moment of genuine appreciation for the little, blessed pleasures God still allowed mortals to experience. His elegantly-worded notions about the order of the universe ceased to be a prideful display of superiority, and instead became an engaging debate capable of building dialogue between spiritual opposites. His love for books wasn't a selfish desire of accumulation for accumulation's sake, but an intellectual connection to the history and minds of the humans he was meant to protect, from all times and cultures. His acceptance to share duties with a demon wasn't sheer laziness, but a very tangible olive branch offered to a former sworn enemy. Deeds that would have tarnished any human soul, made it revolting and beyond repair, hadn't even dented the core of Aziraphale's goodness. If anything, they had enriched it: like the light patina of a vintage Bentley, those sins adorned Aziraphale's very soul like unique and distinguishing traits, all the more intriguing to a discerning eye.

And the most baffling thing was that Crowley hadn't even noticed. He hadn't noticed that his plan, ostensibly always in motion and always waiting, waiting, waiting for the next occasion to move further, was gradually being shoved into the most forgetful corners of his mind. He hadn't noticed he'd stopped plotting against his enemy, and had instead started just coexisting with him. It had taken him so goddamn long to notice he'd stopped considering Aziraphale as an inconvenient obstacle to be removed from the world Crowley was meant to submit, but that the angel had rather become one of its most interesting and worthwhile features.

It had taken him until the end of the world to realize that.

* * *

As it turned out, Crowley's flat hadn't been obliterated by the forces of Hell. Yet.

"Make yourself at home." Crowley said as he jogged from room to room to make sure there were no former colleagues of his lying in wait anywhere.

"This is where you live?" Aziraphale asked, peeking curiously from the entryway. Crowley interrupted his inspection just to make a face.

"Oh no, I'm just appropriating the humble abode of a millionaire manager perished in the latest fish tornado. He won't need it anymore, will he?" Aziraphale gave him a dubious glance. Crowley rolled his eyes. "_Yes_, this is where I live. What kind of question is that, why wouldn't it be?"

"Oh, you know, just wondering." Aziraphale answered, visibly relieved. "I wasn't really expecting your home to look like this."

"And why not?"

"Well, it's… rather neat and minimalistic." Aziraphale hesitated. "It almost reminds me of the Upper Offices. Although it is quite darker, I suppose."

Crowley stared at Aziraphale pointedly. Deafening silence was the only appropriate reply to such a statement, so he let it stretch leisurely until Aziraphale couldn't help but look away.

"Are you going to come in anytime soon or…?" Crowley eventually said, gesturing around vaguely.

"Yes. Thank you." The angel finally unstuck from the threshold and followed Crowley into the study. "I really appreciate your hospitality, by the way. I'll be out of your hair by tomorrow, I'm sure it won't be hard to find a nice spot for me to move in."

"Oh, no rush. I barely use this place." Crowley waved at him dismissively, his attention suddenly caught by the ansaphone. It wasn't blinking exactly as he had left it. It definitely should be blinking exactly as he had left it. "Uh, right, the bedroom's over there. If you don't feel like sleeping, there's the…" There was the tv, which Aziraphale hardly ever watched. There was the computer, which surely he didn't even know how to plug in. There was the hi-fi, boasting an impressive collection of contemporary artists 95% of which the angel probably had never heard of. It suddenly occurred to Crowley that Aziraphale wasn't the easiest guest to entertain.

"You don't happen to have any books lying around, I suppose."

Crowley shrugged. "'Fraid not. But there's some food in the fridge, if you want." He offered lamely.

"Oh. Thank you, but I think I'll be catching some sleep tonight as well." Aziraphale smiled sheepishly. "I haven't had a day as intense as this one in a long while. It takes a toll on you even when you're indefatigable."

"You're telling me." Crowley mumbled, watching Aziraphale head off into the corridor. He waited until his guest was reasonably far from the study before checking the new recorded message. He regretted it very quickly.

"What's that?" Aziraphale inquired loudly, when the unmistakable noise of demonic torment and horrified screams erupted from the speakers. Crowley hurried to silence it with some chaotic button-mashing and removed the cassette from the machine. A single, fat worm fell from the tape.

"Ugh." Crowley grimaced, shoving the whole device into the trash can. All right, his mistake. He should have dealt with Hastur when he had the chance. But then again, what was one more demon free out there wanting him dead when he had already earned the eternal grudge of both Heaven and Hell? "Nothing. Nothing to be worried about."

"That definitely sounded like something to be worried about." Aziraphale insisted, rather alarmed.

"Nah, just prank calls. I really need to find out who invented them and offer them a drink, now that's some first-calls deviousness-" Crowley hurried to the bedroom before Aziraphale could decide to investigate the matter personally, and stopped abruptly when he saw the angel sitting innocently on his bed. "Uh. That's my bed." He felt it was important to state that fact aloud.

"Yes, I gathered. Excellent mattress, I must say." Aziraphale replied genially, until Crowley's silence prompted him to stand up hastily. "Oh, sorry, you pointed me to the bedroom and I thought you meant I could…?"

"No! I meant that you could make yourself a bed and get settled!"

"Oh! I'm terribly sorry, I just thought…" Aziraphale paused, looking at the object of the argument confusedly. "It's a very large bed though. It looks like four people could sleep comfortably on it, so I thought-"

"I roll around a lot when I sleep, all right?" Crowley retorted with anger, with tangible and very obvious anger, and with absolutely no embarrassment whatsoever. "Look, just- miracle yourself some furniture, here or wherever you want, or sleep on the sofa, or anywhere that isn't _my _bed."

"All right, all right!" Aziraphale frowned and raised his hands defensively. "I'll take the sofa then."

Crowley collapsed face-first on his reconquered berth as soon as Aziraphale left the room, his sunglasses conveniently teleporting to the bedside table before they could bore into his skull. He felt positively destroyed. He'd give anything for another century-long nap, he hadn't had one of those in a while. But it would be rather imprudent in the current circumstances. He'd have to make do with a dozen hours. He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, welcoming that exquisitely human sense of physical relaxation that came with dozing off. He let the beginnings of sleep dull his senses and his mind, sweetly and mercifully-

"My, such luxuriant foliage…"

Crowley's eyes snapped open. "NO!" He bellowed, hurling himself off the bed and into the corridor with barely enough coordination not to trip on his own feet. "Stop it! Shut up!"

"What-" Aziraphale startled as Crowley suddenly appeared before him, arms spread in a clear effort to physically separate him from the potted greenery. "W-What's going on?"

"Nothing. Leave the plants alone. Don't look at them. And above all don't talk to them." Crowley ordered as he grasped the angel's shoulders and steered him bodily out of the room.

"But why? I was just admiring the-"

"There's nothing to admire here. Everyone's just doing what they're supposed to do."

"But-"

"My house, my rules. The plants are off-limits." Crowley snapped his fingers and two robust metallic doors materialized out of thin air to seal the area from the rest of the house. Crowley shoved Aziraphale past them, while he lingered on the threshold just long enough to glare at every single plant in the room.

"Don't forget whose opinion really matters here, guys." He hissed, his teeth bared. His warning was met with a collective, deferential shudder.

"...Crowley, are you all right?" Aziraphale asked, eyeing him worriedly. Crowley looked at him like a naked Bedouin sitting on a glacier in the Arctic might look at someone asking him if he's cold. The doors locked with an audible clang.

"...Yeah, I'm just peachy." He eventually muttered, rubbing his eyes and heading back to the bedroom. He lay down again and closed his eyes, enjoying a grand total of ten second of peace before Aziraphale's footsteps reached the room. Crowley sighed. "...What?"

"Actually, I think I would like to sleep here, if it's all right with you."

"Do whatever you want."

"Are you sure you don't mind-"

"What do you think 'do whatever you want' means, Aziraphale?"

"I'm guessing it means that I have free reign over any part of your house that doesn't include your bed or your plants."

Aziraphale's miffed tone got the tiniest smile out of him. "Yep, you got it. See? Wasn't difficult."

Crowley felt reality shift around him. Curiosity got the better of him, and he peeked to the side. The bedroom had conveniently enlarged just enough so that Aziraphale's newly created bed could fit. It was a small, single one, all wood and fin de siecle linens and puffy pillows and creamy tones. It clashed with the existing decor something terrible, but Crowley barely took notice. He was more concerned with its owner, sitting somewhat rigidly on it and glancing around the room nervously. Suddenly Crowley understood why he'd chosen to sleep there.

"Relax, angel. No one will be coming after us." Crowley couldn't help but offer, lowly. "Not tonight, at least."

Their eyes met. After a beat, Aziraphale nodded. "Yes. You are probably right."

Aziraphale was still sitting up when Crowley closed his eyes. He hoped that the other could catch some rest, but he wouldn't mind too much if he didn't. Even a demon could use a guardian angel to watch over his sleep, after all.

* * *

Aziraphale did sleep that night, for a good two hours and a half. It may not sound like a lot, but considering that he hadn't rested since that quick twenty-minute nap in 1732, it felt immensely refreshing anyway. Upon rising, he had to admit that creating his own bed had proven to be a wise choice: in his sleep, Crowley had somehow managed to scatter his considerably long limbs all over the mattress, effectively covering a flat surface that must be at least three times as large as that of his own body. Admittedly he looked quite endearing, arms and legs making a decent impression of a windrose and snoring away with his mouth open.

Aziraphale spent the rest of the night keeping himself quietly busy. He checked all the news from the radio and the tv, from which he gathered that Adam was mending reality with impressive speed and ease, considering how suddenly his powers had bloomed. It was truly a blessing that the boy was far more mature than anyone had credited him for. To think that Aziraphale himself had seriously entertained the notion of eliminating him… No, that guilt wasn't going to leave him anytime soon.

The angel then proceeded to tidy up what little there was to tidy up in Crowley's apartment. Some spilt water here and there, and a ragged, dark set of clothes oddly abandoned on the threshold of the study. They didn't look like the type of get-up Crowley would choose for himself, and it certainly wasn't one Aziraphale had ever seen him wear, but then again the demon had a thing for experimenting with mortal fashion. Aziraphale also repeatedly wrestled with the impulse to take another look at Crowley's plants, entirely because of his exceedingly suspicious behavior. He didn't do it, though. That would have been extremely impolite, almost traitorous. Utterly unworthy of his status. Although- no. No, he wouldn't.

He even managed to find a few books, tucked away under the sofa or on top of unreachable shelves. They were atlases, maps, photography magazines, all focussed on naturalistic topics: pictures of panoramas from all over the world, animals, plants, even remote stars and galaxies. Aziraphale wasn't an especially avid consumer of such publications: he vastly preferred both the written word and man-made illustrations, which did a much better job of conveying the divine spark of creativity God had blessed humanity with. However, as he was leafing through those pages and seeing ruins of cities he had inhabited, cute yet clumsy species he had discreetly saved from extinction, masses of gas and dust he had shaped into celestial bodies, he couldn't help but slip into a lengthy bout of nostalgia for the halcyon days of creation. He wouldn't be surprised if Crowley kept those books around for the same reason.

When he heard some muffled noises coming from the bedroom, Aziraphale decided to make breakfast. His noble endeavor, however, was thwarted by the complete lack of any sort of raw or packed ingredient in any cupboard of the house; the fridge, instead, offered a vast selection of gourmet brioches, fruit juices, bacon and eggs, pancakes and all sorts of scrumptious dishes that looked as if they had been cooked mere minutes earlier. Well, it would be a waste not to partake, he deliberated. He'd just finished setting the table when Crowley finally joined him with a half-yawned "'Morning."

It was a most refreshing and welcome change of pace, being able to chat of everything and nothing over a hearty meal again, instead of covertly panicking over the very real possibility of Doomsday disrupting the next weekend, as well as all the others that would never follow. The last week had been exhausting for the both of them - especially for Crowley. For all his trademark devil-may-care attitude, it was really quite easy to notice when the demon was genuinely distressed: from his eyes, thin slits of darkness in a pool of gold that Aziraphale could always see through the glasses and that darted left and right more quickly than usual, to his gestures, that lost their swaying languor in favor of nervous, reptilian jerks, to the sudden explosions of anger and aggression that were just as dangerous as the roar of a kitten. All of that was gone now. His cutting temper was still dulled by the lingering drowsiness, and soft, unguarded smiles curved his lips in response to Aziraphale's casual chatter. The ruffled hair, the creased clothes and the lazy nibbles at his brioche spoke of the unhurried comfort that came after overcoming a trying ordeal, and they filled the angel's heart with genuine tenderness. There were, truly, beauty and goodness in all the things and entities that existed, even in those who supposedly tried their hardest to antagonize them.

"Oh, you may want to take those to the cleaners." Aziraphale pointed at the folded rags he'd put on the sofa, once he was finished with his breakfast. "What ever did you do to those poor clothes to ruin them like that?"

"Ugh, throw them away." Crowley replied with a disgusted grunt. "That's Ligur."

"I see." Aziraphale said, having never heard of the brand. He agreed that the quality of the tailoring was rather shabby, so he did as he was told. "Well, I was thinking of dropping by the bookshop this morning - or what's left of it, anyway. Who knows, there may be some intact books among the rubble…"

"Mmmh. I guess there's no harm in checking." Crowley didn't look terribly convinced. "Mind if I come along?"

"Oh, not at all." Aziraphale replied, pleasantly surprised. "But don't you have more urgent things to do, instead of helping me carry around charred tomes?"

"Right now, not at all. I'm pretty sure I've been fired, so I happen to have a lot of free time on my hands." Crowley snapped his fingers, and in a blink he was as elegant and well-groomed as ever.

"You aren't going to keep performing your duties then? No more tempting innocent souls or spreading negative influence?" Aziraphale inquired as they stepped into the lift.

"Are you? Even if your boss doesn't care?"

"Why, of course. Being a harbinger of the light is the very reason of my existence! It's more than a job, it's my very nature!"

"Aren't you a model employee?" Crowley deadpanned. "Well, first and foremost, I think I've earned myself a vacation. Now, that isn't to say that I'm going to pass up on any opportunities to have some _fun_ if the occasion arises..."

"Of course you aren't." Aziraphale smiled, stepping out of the building. "Shall we take a taxi or- Crowley?" Crowley had abruptly stopped in his tracks, staring at something in the parking area-

"Oh!" Aziraphale eloquently commented.

Crowley jogged to what was, without a doubt, his car. Not the scorched ball of molten metal and rubber he'd been forced to abandon at Tadfield Airbase, but his cherished Bentley in all its former glory and vintage elegance. The demon stared at it in evident disbelief, his brows so high that they almost disappeared into his hairline, his mouth shaped into a perfectly round O. He admired it, ran his palm along the chassis, hopped all around to inspect it from every possible angle - including under the bumper and over the roof.

"Did you do this?" He eventually managed, his gaze bouncing back and forth between the car and the angel.

"No, it wasn't me. But I've heard that yesterday's disasters are being reverted. Maybe this is part of it." Aziraphale suggested as Crowley opened the door and basically dove head-first into the car.

"It's exactly as it used to be! Custom leather seats and all! Even my CDs-" Crowley took one from the dashboard, one whose cover was a wordless black void with a glass prism refracting white light into a rainbow. He inserted it into the radio and a cheery band started to sing very enthusiastically about riding a bicycle. Crowley's exhilarated mood seemed to dampen ever so slightly. "...Yep. Just as they used to be."

"It looks like Adam knows what he's doing." Aziraphale smiled, knowing how much that little miracle meant for his friend. Then, a thought struck him. "Maybe…"

"...Maybe." Crowley agreed, understanding him at a glance. "Hop in. Let's go and see."

Aziraphale's empathetic joy waned very quickly when it was obvious that Crowley's driving style wasn't at all affected by the recent demise of his old vehicle.

"Out of curiosity, how did the fire start?" The angel asked, trying to think of anything but the absurd number on the speed gauge.

"I was about to ask you the same thing. Serves you right for quitting on me as you did though. Seriously, did you really have to pick the busiest day in the last six thousand years to leave this plane of existence? Where did you even go?"

"To Heaven, of course. And I didn't exactly choose to leave, if you must know. I was… summoned."

"Oh, you don't say?" Crowley sneered. "Well, guess what? My lot summoned me too, but I ignored them because I had more important stuff to do, namely saving the bloody universe-"

"Also because they would have welcomed you less than enthusiastically, I imagine-"

"_On my own_, because _someone_ ditched me without one word of warning-"

"That's not what happened at all! It was… an unfortunate accident." Aziraphale burst out, halfway between affronted and embarrassed.

"What kind of accident?" Crowley frowned inquisitively when Aziraphale didn't reply. "Oi! What kind of accident?"

"...Promise me you won't laugh." Aziraphale begged. Crowley merely raised an eyebrow in response. The angel sighed. "Well, the thing is… I was in my bookshop, and I opened a channel to Heaven, to see if I could… talk them out of the whole universal annihilation thing-"

"Talking people out of war. Yeah, solid plan. When has it ever not worked in the history of wars?"

"It made sense to _try_, at least. Anyway, Shadwell walked in-"

"What the heaven was Shadwell doing in your bookshop?"

"I don't know- could you please stop interrupting me? As I was saying, Shadwell saw the ritual and… I fear he mistook me for one of your lot. He got rather worked up and…"

"He killed you?" Crowley guessed, genuinely impressed.

"Oh no, no! He just… started pacing here and there, muttering strange things, and… well, he got a tad too close to the summoning circle - the passage was still open, you see, and…"

"And?"

"I sort of… stepped on it. While I was trying to keep him away." Aziraphale paused. "By accident."

Crowley didn't reply. He looked at Aziraphale, then back at the road, then at the angel again. His mouth twitched.

"Don't." Aziraphale warned him. Crowley's face had already become a quivering mess of aborted expressions that devolved very quickly into hysterical half-snorts.

"Oh sure, go ahead and- _don't take your hands off the wheel!_" Aziraphale squealed when the demon did exactly that, holding his sides and throwing back his head as he burst into a boisterous laugh. Luckily, the car seemed to be endowed with all the common sense Crowley had never had and it kept avoiding pedestrians autonomously.

"That's so stupid." Crowley gasped, making a show of wiping away a non-existent tear. "That's so bloody stupid. How can anyone possibly be so stupid?"

"Oh, I don't know. In the same way one can misplace an Antichrist for eleven years, I suppose." Aziraphale's jab sadly didn't manage to penetrate the waves of hilarity Crowley was exuding. "Judging by Shadwell's behavior, he must have presumed my disappearance was due to his own… peculiar powers."

"Oh, is _that _what he's been doing with his finger all day yesterday?"

"Well, yes. What did you think he was doing?"

"I don't know! I thought you had tried to possess him and fried a bunch of his neurons… And it's not like he had that many to begin with-"

"Now you're just being needlessly nasty."

Crowley shook his head, still giggling like a child as he put his hands back on the steering wheel, just in time to park the car as they reached their destination.

"Huh." He simply said as he climbed out of the car, studying the building as if he'd never seen it before.

"Ah, bless that boy!" Aziraphale glowed as he excitedly walked back and forth along the front of the bookshop. A rapid survey of the inside as well confirmed that his earthly abode was just as he'd left it, books and all. Actually, there seemed to be a few extras too.

"Ohoh, this is the kind of reading I could be convinced to try." Crowley grinned, leafing through the flashy illustrations of one 'Blood Dogs of the Skull Sea'. "Look at this beast! This stuff is inspirational! It makes you wonder why the hellhound didn't turn into one of these beauties."

Aziraphale didn't reply. Yes, everything looked just as it did before, but… "Something's off."

Crowley glanced around the shelves in surprise. "Really? Is anything missing?"

"No, no. The place is fine… physically. But there's a strange feeling in the air."

Crowley groaned and rolled his eyes. "Are you going to start gushing about ethereal flashes of love again? I thought London was impervious to those."

"It's not love." Aziraphale frowned, trying to focus on the odd sensation. It was different from what he'd felt in Tadfield: Adam's love for his hometown was a deep-rooted, all-encompassing and aged feeling, a quiet yet powerful acknowledgement, indissolubly weaved into the very matter that composed its streets, its woods, its soil. What the angel was perceiving in his bookshop was more akin to an explosion - sudden and short-lived, yet extremely intense. "I think it's the opposite of that."

"Ooooh, you mean spooky? Nice. I love spooky. Still can't feel anything though."

"It's… anger, I think. Rage. And…" Aziraphale paused. The sensation glimpsed in and out of his head swiftly, as if it was moving, pacing, speeding around the place almost like a physical entity, phasing through him and leaving a trail of suffocating heat-

_BASTAAAAAARDS!_

Aziraphale forgot to breathe. For the following seven minutes, approximately. It happened relatively often, for the most varied reasons. The most surprising thing was that this time it made his chest hurt. "...Grief."

Crowley stood perfectly still. Very slowly, his features relaxed into what would have looked, to anybody else, like a perfectly natural neutral expression. He gazed around the shop and strolled away from Aziraphale to look out of the nearest window with equally studied nonchalance.

"Must have been one of your neighbours. It was a pretty big fire." He said, his back turned to Aziraphale. "You know, mothers forgetting babies inside flaming buildings and all that."

_ALL OF YOU!_

Aziraphale's heart thrummed in sympathy with that whirlwind of emotion. By sheer force of habit, he blessed that painful feeling and the creature that had generated it, for nobly bearing the sacrifices that God's plan required. Considering that Crowley didn't instantly turn into a screaming, bubbling puddle of goo, Aziraphale guessed that God, in Her infinite wisdom, must have refused to validate that particular blessing, and he sent Her his heartfelt thanks for that as well. Aziraphale let the silence stretch for a while, quietly contemplating that powerful echo. Even when Crowley finally turned to face him, his expression still blank and his hands casually tucked in his pockets, neither of them spoke. It occurred to Aziraphale that his intent staring may have been interpreted as some sort of challenge only when the demon admitted defeat, sighing in annoyance and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Look, what do you want me to say? Mh?" Crowley asked, spreading his arms. "What do you want me to say that you don't already know?"

It was a fair point. It was also (it being Crowley's ruffled demeanour, his flat tone, his casual evasion) so strikingly familiar and typical that it warmed Aziraphale's heart enough to finally distract him from the lingering negativity of the ambiance.

"...Would you like some hot cocoa?" The angel offered with a kind smile.

* * *

"Far from me to twist the knife into what you undoubtedly consider a major flaw in your character," Aziraphale said as he slid in front of Crowley a steaming cup of chocolate that the demon hadn't exactly accepted, but that he hadn't exactly refused either, "but why were you upset so deeply? It's not like I've never been discorporated before."

"'It's not like I've never been discorporated before.'" Crowley parroted him, without acknowledging the existence of the beverage. "I swear you say the most idiotic things sometimes."

"Well, I'm just a tad confused about your reaction, is all-"

"Why would I care about you being discorporated?!" Crowley burst out. "I thought you'd been destroyed! You try to call me - urgently - and I can't answer, I try to call you and you don't answer, and then I arrive here and you're nowhere to be found and everything's on fire - on fire! The one thing that can damage you! What was I supposed to think?"

"But… You thought it was hellfire?" Aziraphale asked, confusedly. "Why would there be hellfire in my bookshop?"

"Oh, I don't know. It may have had something to do with the fact that I myself had almost been murdered a scant ten minutes before-"

"You were _what_?!" Aziraphale gasped, aghast, his own cup freezing halfway towards his mouth.

"Yeah. That was probably it, now that I think about it." Crowley snarled, tapping his fingers on the table. "You became unreachable five minutes after I received a visit from a couple of pissed-off demons trying to 'collect' me. I thought that Hell had decided to settle the score with you as well, while they were at it."

"My dear boy, I had no idea…" Aziraphale trailed off. He gasped again when the gravity of the situation sank in fully. "Heavens, you said almost _murdered_?! Oh no… No, this won't do…"

"Oh, well… Maybe 'almost murdered' was laying it on a bit thick." Crowley admitted, his temper finally subsiding. "They were pretty pissed off, but they didn't even get close to the murdering part."

"Thank God for that. But how did you manage to escape from them?"

"Oh. Remember that thermos of holy water you gave me fifty years ago?" A malicious smile spread on the demon's face. "Good insurance indeed."

"..Are you trying to tell me that-"

"Oh yes."

"You've smitten two demons?!" Aziraphale gaped.

"One, actually. The other one managed to escape, but I'd say I was rather-"

"_I_'ve never smitten a demon!" Aziraphale added, suddenly facing a minuscule existential crisis. "And that's supposed to be my job!"

"Really? How odd." The only demon Aziraphale had interacted with in the last six thousand years replied. Still, the angel was too caught up in his own thoughts to pay any attention to sarcasm.

"Do you have any holy water left?"

"Uh, no, I've used it all up-"

"Then you'll need some more. Lots more. It could save your skin if Hell decided to strike again." Aziraphale stood up and headed towards the kitchen. "Here, give me a moment-"

"Hey, hey, calm down, I don't need it right this second!" Crowley stammered, pointing at the other's abandoned cup. "We can worry about that later, your cocoa is going cold-"

"It's no matter, I need just two minutes-"

Exactly two minutes and seventeen seconds later, Aziraphale handed to a mildly astonished Crowley the biggest and sturdiest piece of tupperware he owned, filled to the brim with the precious liquid.

"Did you just make all this?"

"Well, yes. Blessing tap water isn't exactly a lengthy or complicated process."

"You can make literal gallons of holy water in two minutes, and it took you _a hundred years_ to decide to give me two cups' worth of it last time?!" The demon complained, without moving to grasp the container. "How very generous of you!"

"I didn't know what you were planning to do with it! I was concerned!"

"Of what?!"

"That you might… mishandle it and get hurt! You wouldn't give your sharpest kitchen knife to a five-year-old child just because he asked for it, would you?"

"I would. Anyway that's a very unflattering comparison and I resent it."

"Well, yes, here's more holy water than you'll ever need, hopefully." Aziraphale impatiently held out the pitcher towards Crowley's chest, who positively jumped back holding his arms out defensively.

"Wait wait wait _wait_! Your cuff is wet! Have you even dried your hands? Are you trying to _kill_ me?"

"What- That's just normal water! I blessed the one in the container after sealing it! Do you really think I'm that outrageously clumsy?"

"Considering that you've discorporated yourself through sheer clumsiness just the other day, yeah, kind of."

"Oh, for Heaven's- look, if you want it, it's here. If not, do whatever you want." Aziraphale put down the plastic carafe on the table primly, and then he finally set down to sip his cocoa. Crowley eyed the container from every possible angle, clearly expecting to find some traitorous droplet rolling down its sides, then he poked the lid gingerly.

"I don't trust this thing not to burst open by accident before I can put it somewhere safer. Got any tape?"

Aziraphale fetched some packing tape from the cupboard and handed it to Crowley. He stood beside him, watching him secure the lid meticulously for a couple of minutes. Now that the idle bickering wasn't distracting him any more, Aziraphale found his own soul attuning again with the background thrumming of the demon's past anguish. It felt only natural for Aziraphale to squeeze the other's shoulder warmly.

"You know, I'm very proud of you."

"...Uh?" Crowley squinted at him as if the angel had just sprouted a second head. That is to say, not as if he'd done something utterly impossible, but merely something very random for no reason whatsoever.

"For showing up at Tadfield, even after all this. You were hunted down by your own brethren, you suffered a painful loss, and yet you reined in your wrath and braced your sorrow and still found the will to fight for this world. It was very brave, and selfless."

"Uhm." Crowley answered, with a strange dumbfounded look that instantly raised a few doubts in Aziraphale's mind.

"That's… that's what you did, isn't it?"

"Uuuuuuuuuuh- Yeah. Yeah, yeah, of course." Crowley floundered with the elegance of a beached whale. "That's what I did… eventually- which is to say- yeah-"

"'Eventually'? What do you mean, 'eventually'?"

"I mean- not _right away_, I needed a moment to... You know, my human operatives never managed to locate the Antichrist, so I was… kind of lost as to what I should have been doing in that moment-"

"What did you do?"

"And even if I had known where to go, what were the odds of me, all alone, averting the apocalypse? Realistically speaking-"

"What did you _do_, Crowley?"

"Well, since you were no more, and the Earth was going to be no more very soon regardless of what I did, I thought… you know, I may as well enjoy one last bottle of scotch in that old-fashioned pub in Hollen Street-"

"...Good Lord." Aziraphale covered his eyes with his hand, his tone falling as flat as his expectations. "You were going to get hopelessly drunk and do nothing whatsoever about Armageddon, weren't you?"

"Hey, don't you dare use that tone with me! Not when I was the one who had to convince you to do anything in the first place! You were merrily going to let the sea bubble and all the creatures, great and small, be vaporized in a blaze of divine glory, remember?"

"For an entirely different reason! I was simply trying my best to follow God's plan! You never cared a trifle about that! You only ever cared about your earthly pleasures - such as getting drunk while the whole world goes up in flames, apparently-"

"Look, what was I supposed to do?! I didn't even know where to go! If it wasn't for your book-"

"My book? What book?"

"Well, not your book, the American lady's book. Agnes Nutter's Something Something Prophecies." Crowley resumed plastering tape all over the already foolproof lid. "I found it here while I was looking for you and I took it, because why not? And then I was leafing through it at the pub and I found your notes about Adam and the airbase and- and then this strange thing happened, you know? I opened the book on a completely random page and the very first prophecy I read was… I don't remember how it went exactly, but it was… obviously aimed at _me_. In a very specific way. And it said that my ethereal companion hadn't vanished, but I'd meet him again at the place of the final confrontation, or something like that, and I'd just read on your notes that everything written on the book is invariably true, and I thought…'Oh.'"

"Oh." Aziraphale echoed.

"Yeah."

While Crowley's peculiar tale depicted a somewhat less virtuous attitude towards pain and unfavourable odds than what he'd first envisioned, Aziraphale had to admit that there was something undeniably noble in the idea of the demon abandoning his drunken stupor and speeding across the country on a flaming car the moment a few key indications and the promise of reuniting with his best friend reignited his hope. There was something undeniably touching about it on a very personal level too.

"Well... I suppose I can't- that's enough tape, don't you think?" Aziraphale said gesturing at the carafe, which was by now mummified under layers of ugly brown tape.

"Uh. Right." Crowley blinked at the container as if he'd just become aware of its existence before sitting down to finally take a sip of his own cocoa. As he sat back as well, Aziraphale took care of heating the beverage up to a pleasant temperature with a thought before it reached the demon's lips.

"I was saying, I suppose I can't blame you for taking a moment to… gather your thoughts, so to speak. I must confess that I myself haven't acted quite as promptly as I could have in the last days."

"Oh. Really?"

"Yes. Admittedly, by the time I called you, I'd been aware of the Antichrist's whereabouts for… a little bit."

"Yeah?" Crowley frowned. "How little, exactly?"

"Oh, roughly… twelve hours, I think."

"Twelve hours?!" Crowley sputtered. "We could have got to Tadfield twelve hours earlier?! Do you have any idea how much trouble we'd have spared ourselves with a twelve-hour advance?"

"Well-"

"I wouldn't have had to drive my car through a bloody wall of fire, for one!" Crowley threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "What have you even been doing in all that time?"

"I was… considering the situation. You'll admit I was in a rather delicate position, and I felt that I had to choose my actions carefully." Aziraphale argued. "Eventually I decided to tell you, and the upper offices as well. It seemed like a good way to help our cause without, you know, openly obstructing Heaven's plans."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What else did you decide?"

"Nothing. That was what I came up with, and so I-"

"And it took you twelve hours to decide _that_?" Crowley groaned, covering his face. "Quick thinking really isn't your thing, is it?"

"Well, there's no reason to dwell on recriminations." Aziraphale stated briskly. "Everything turned out just fine, in the end."

"If by 'fine' you mean that ten million demons' and ten million angels' best laid plans and efforts went completely into smoke for no purpose other than postponing the inevitable battle for another… I don't know, one or two thousand years - then sure, everything's just dandy." Crowley muttered to his cocoa. "Do you seriously believe this was all God's plan? All of this for nothing? What's the bloody _point_?"

"You know I can't answer that question. But I wouldn't say this was all for nothing. From my very limited and imperfect perspective, for example, I can clearly see at least two creatures who have ultimately benefited from this whole Apocalypse ordeal. But I'm sure there must be many, many more."

"And those would be?"

"Adam, for one. Armageddon truly brought out the best in him. Didn't you hear him talk with the Horsepeople? His words were so humble and simple, yet such an inspiring embodiment of all virtues! Prudence and temperance above all, and then justice and courage-"

"Yeah, yeah, just wait until he reaches puberty and then we'll see where all those virtues will go."

"Still, you have to admit that, for someone who's supposed to be the literal spawn of Evil, his spirit is remarkably untainted. I'm sure he wouldn't have turned out like this without going through the process of human life, or if he had come into existence among demons in the depths of Hell. Maybe this was all this proto-Armageddon was about: offering a chance of redemption to what would have otherwise been unredeemable spirits."

"Mmmh." Crowley crossed his arms with evident skepticism. "And who's the other one?"

"Why you, of course." Aziraphale couldn't hold back a smile at Crowley's stunned silence.

"...Sorry, what?"

"Isn't it obvious? As I said, during the past week you have displayed an admirably selfless side-"

"Watch it, angel." Crowley muttered. "Keep casting aspersions on me and no miracle will be able to fix what I'll do to your collection of Bibles."

"Oh, don't be a child about it. It's perfectly understandable, considering how much time you spent around me. I am a Principality, after all-"

"Excuse me. I must have misheard." Crowley raised his finger, then he leaned towards Aziraphale across the table with a malevolent squint. "Are you by any chance telling me that you've been trying to inspire goodness in me?"

"Maybe." Aziraphale gave him an apologetic smile. "I didn't hold much hope to succeed, but I'll admit I was rather curious. A few good deeds now and then, less evil ones performed in person, after yours truly accepted to carry them out for you… I wonder if all that could tip the moral scales at least a little bit, so to speak." Aziraphale let out a small laugh in response to Crowley's stunned silence. "What? Haven't you been trying to do the same since we met?"

Crowley's eyebrows raised so much that they almost disappeared into his hairline, and he opened and closed his mouth soundlessly like a fish gasping for air before he managed to put together a reply. "I- You- you _knew_?"

"Of course I knew! Why else would a demon associate so freely with a sworn enemy?"

"But- then- why did you keep seeing me?!"

"Because there was no way you'd succeed, obviously. An angel being corrupted, in this day and age! And me, of all people! No offense, but the mere idea is laughable."

"It's no more laughable than a demon being redeemed!"

"I disagree on that. Demons used to be angels, after all. Evil is an acquired trait for your lot, and who's to say your innate core of Goodness isn't still there, ready to be unburied?"

"No. No no no, all right, this is much more than ridiculous. This is blasphemous. You thought you could pave the road to the redemption of someone who's been irrevocably deemed unforgivable? You thought you could single-handedly overturn a sentence of eternal damnation issued by the Almighty Herself? You thought you knew better than _God_?" Crowley spread his arms in outrage. "And they said Lucifer had too high an opinion of himself!"

"I never said that God was wrong." Aziraphale raised his hands defensively. "Your punishment was amply deserved. But that happened thousands of years ago. Some things have changed. Some demons may have changed too. And God has always been way more forgiving than your lot credited Her for."

"You are out of your mind."

"But… Oh, you must see my point! Think of the lives you saved- think of the whole world you saved!"

"Literally none of that was done out of goodwill. Especially not for the humans. I just like what they've done with the place, therefore I want it to keep existing. For myself. It's entirely selfish. End of the story."

"And," Aziraphale pressed on, leaning towards Crowley as well, "you rebelled!"

"Uh… Yeah. Yeah, I did. That's what I'm saying, it isn't the kind of thing God just gets over with-"

"No, I don't mean against God! You rebelled against Satan! If you had reported to Hell about the baby swapping as soon as you learnt of it, they still could have found a solution- tailing the hound, for example. But you did not! You sabotaged them, you went as far as to fight other demons-!

"Out of self presevation! No one in their right mind would keep working for someone who's just going to slaughter them at the end of the job! I was doing anything I could think of doing to save my skin! You know, _selfishly_! How are you struggling to grasp this basic concept so much?!"

"And then you fought Satan himself!" Aziraphale proclaimed, undeterred by the growing heat of Crowley's answers. "You did not run, you did not turn sides-"

"As if you could just run from the boss. And fighting is a bit of a strong word, isn't it? The kid didn't let even the tip of his horns out of the pavement-"

"That hardly matters, what matters is the intent! You held your ground, proud and determined, ready to fight him 'til the bitter end, armed only with the one thing you loved most in the world in your hand-"

"Oi, oi, oi!" Crowley sputtered. "Lay it on a bit thicker, will you? Where did that- You can't just-"

Crowley's confusion gave Aziraphale pause. The demon was growing considerably red. Oh dear. Could he ignite out of sheer rage? That would be a first. "I really don't think I'm exaggerating. You were ready to die fighting him, we both were."

"Not that! The thing- the 'thing you love the most' thing, what even-"

"That too. At least I had a proper weapon, but you only had that… what was that, a piece of your Bentley? I'm sure it had a huge emotional value for you, but in terms of offensive capabilities… Talk about David and Goliath…"

That shocked Crowley into silence. "...Oh. The car." He eventually managed. "Yeah. The car. Yeah."

"Yes. What did you think I was-" The answer struck Aziraphale before the question was finished. He had only two hands, after all. "...Oh, Crowley-"

"All right, that's IT!" Crowley suddenly shouted, shooting up on his feet and banging his fist on the table. The sunlight filtering from the window behind Crowley was blocked by the magnificent pair of wings that spread from his back, casting a looming shadow above the sitting angel. The rest of the room grew inexplicably darker as well as the demon towered above Aziraphale, mouth twisted and teeth bared in an enraged snarl. He pointed towards his wings. "Look. Look at these, do you see them? Not a single white feather. Not a lighter shade of grey anywhere. Do you see them? Black. Charred. Tainted. Not by fire, or tar, or soot, or mud. By _God_. God changed them. Changed everything. And you can't _fix_ God's work. You can't get a bloody word in edgewise, actually. Believe me, we're the ones who tried. Now," Crowley bent downwards still, his back arched like a predator ready to strike, his nose mere centimetres away from Aziraphale, "I don't know what gave you the impression of being smarter than the highest order of the universe, but I think we can agree that whatever little self-empowering game you've been playing hasn't changed anything. Right?"

"Right." Aziraphale replied without the slightest inflection, as he was starting to feel like he'd overstepped some boundary. Not so much with the universe as with his friend.

"Right. So quit yapping about goodness and selflessness and whatnot before I show you exactly what's the difference between the two of us." Aziraphale remained respectfully silent. Finally Crowley straightened up as his wings disappeared and the room cleared up again. The demon fixed his jacket, scowling at the surrounding shelves as if they had personally offended him. "Keep the water, I don't need it. I have plenty of other tricks up my sleeve. Bye."

"What? Wait! Where are you going?" Aziraphale startled, hurrying after Crowley as he walked off to the front door.

"Away. I'm busy."

"I thought you were on holiday." The angel almost bumped into the other as he stopped and turned on his heels abruptly, another snarling reply ready to fire. "And I was wondering if we could have lunch together at the Ritz."

"Why? So that your ethereal influence can polish my spirit a bit more?"

"Really, now. You know me better than that." Aziraphale gave him his most conciliatory smile. "No point in saving the world if we don't get to enjoy it, right?"

Crowley hesitated just long enough to let Aziraphale know that he was well aware of being played. And then he did it anyway. "...Right. But you're paying."

"Of course."

* * *

"What do you think would happen to us, if we were to die from now on?" Aziraphale asked, several hours and a lucullan lunch later.

"Well, aren't you a bundle of laughs lately?" Crowley deadpanned. He was enjoying the fine afternoon breeze and the idle quacking of the ducks in St. James' Park too much to embark in such grim elucubrations.

"I think it's a legitimate concern. I don't see either Heaven or Hell granting us a new body after all the trouble we've caused."

"I guess not. But I think we're covered at least until Adam remains on Earth. He didn't even have to snap his fingers to make you a new one."

"You have remarkable faith in that child, haven't you?" Aziraphale graced Crowley with an obscenely proud smile. The demon grimaced and waved at him dismissively.

"Faith has nothing to do with it. Faith is blind and deaf and groundless. Adam has put up a pretty effective and tangible demonstration of his powers. And he likes us. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth. If you get discorporated, just knock on his mind and he'll fix it."

"But he won't be here forever to help us. He's still a mortal, just like Jesus." Aziraphale insisted from above his newly acquired copy of Treasure Island. "What about afterwards?"

"I have a better question for you." Crowley enunciated importantly, shifting to lean on the bench just a tad more composedly and deciding to change the topic. "What about _his _afterwards?"

"...You mean what will happen to him after his death? Well, won't he just go back where he came from?"

"To Hell? Really?" Crowley leaned towards Aziraphale conspiratorially. "Do you really think that Satan will let anyone, including his son - _especially_ his son - potentially endowed with the power to rival him, into his own Reign? Do you have any idea of the trouble it could cause? Demons have a strong tendency to question the authorities, you may have noticed."

"I… I suppose you do have a point." Aziraphale had to agree, visibly struck by the realization. "But where would he go then? Surely not to Heaven… The Antichrist in Heaven, could you even imagine it?"

"Not really, no. But there's another possibility." Crowley tipped his glasses forwards, staring pointedly at the angel from above the dark lenses. "If neither Reign will want him, he may… you know, carve his own place for himself. A new one. Create his own path."

"What?" Aziraphale slightly leaned away from Crowley in sheer shock. "A third faction? For the love of God, Crowley, don't even mention it! Aren't things already difficult enough with two parties at war? Another schism, whether within Hell itself or from the outside, would only compromise the balance of the universe even further!"

"Looks to me like a third faction has been existing for a long time now."

"Pardon?"

Crowley gestured vaguely all around. "How would you call the six billions humans currently living on this planet, and all the others who came before them?"

"They're not a faction. They're-"

"Sort of cattle, when you think about it-"

"Creatures." Aziraphale corrected him sternly.

"Creatures that both our lots have been merrily cannibalizing for the last six millennia for the sake of our own petty squabble-"

"Oh, I don't doubt that your lot has been indeed _cannibalizing_ all the poor souls you could snatch." Aziraphale pointed out primly. "We, on the other hand, have been educating them. Guiding them. Nurturing them. Cherishing them-"

"Oh yeah, those words sound so much nicer, don't they?" Crowley sneered, barely repressing the impulse to hiss in annoyance.

"Are you seriously trying to tell me that you see no fundamental difference between what we do and what you do?" Aziraphale asked in dismay. "Do you really, honestly believe Heaven and Hell to be on equal moral ground?"

"All I'm saying is that it's really easy for me to imagine these guys," he insisted, pointing at a random couple of passersby who clearly did not appreciate being pointed at by a perfect stranger in the middle of a heated argument, "getting fed up with both our and your interferences sooner or later, and it looks to me like they may just find their own champion in our dear Antichrist."

"This is ridiculous! We needn't talk about such a hare-brained notion any longer." Aziraphale asserted firmly, then a thought struck him and he eyed Crowley suspiciously. "I do hope you aren't planning to put strange ideas in that child's head."

"Putting ideas in his head?! He has enough ideas of his own to build a brand new universe from scratch! He doesn't need mine!"

"Good, because the last thing everyone needs right now is another Rebellion."

"Why? Are you scared he might have better luck than we did?" Crowley couldn't help but smirk.

"Of course not. It's just… not the right way to go about it."

"Asking questions and demanding a little more respect and straightforwardness from your boss isn't the right way to go about solving a problem? 'Cause that's what we did-"

"You raised your hand against God." Aziraphale's glare was more scalding and cutting than his sword had ever been. "You took up arms against Her and your own brethren, and you did it first and without provocation, and don't even try to justify that."

"I-" Crowley started, but bit his lip not to continue. He hadn't taken up any arms, surely not first, he thought. He hadn't, but others had. Others on what he hadn't realized yet would permanently become 'his side'. And by the time he had finally grasped the severity of the rift that had formed between those new sides, it was already far too late for reconsiderations. He turned his gaze away from the angel, and focussed instead on a couple of black swans elegantly brawling for the possession of a floating chunk of bread. The park was oddly quiet, and their irked squawking was the only sound the demon could hear for several minutes.

"My point is," Crowley suddenly said when he spied Aziraphale's mouth moving to speak, because he would not let him have the last word on that topic even if it killed him, "that if one feels that he isn't being treated fairly, you can't really blame him for trying to look after himself. At least we can agree on that, yes? Yes."

Aziraphale's silence felt like a hard-earned victory. Neither Heaven nor Hell would be impartial when the moment to judge Adam would come, and if the Antichrist was to be shunned by both sides, wouldn't it be only natural for him to-

"Is that why you rebelled?" The angel asked, eyes fixed on the book open on his lap. It took Crowley by surprise, how delicately Aziraphale had uttered that 'you', so very different from the spiteful 'you' of the rivalling group. It was a very personal question, the most personal question the angel had ever asked him.

Crowley didn't answer. Aziraphale didn't ask again.

"Well," the angel sighed after a long silence, "I guess my point is that we'd better be extremely careful not to be discorporated in the future. Our sudden reappearance in our respective head offices might have rather unpleasant consequences."

"You just can't stop worrying about it, can you?" Crowley remarked, a tad mockingly. "I guess it comes with spending your entire existence as an upstanding Heaven citizen. Never really got on God's bad side, have you?"

"Well, there was that little mishap with my sword..."

"Psh, I'm not talking about misplacing your toys. I mean Her _really_ bad side. I'm talking about going openly against Her will - like you may very well have done by averting Armageddon-"

"Excuse you, I firmly believe I've been doing nothing but serving the Greater Good during these trying times." Aziraphale countered, rather piqued. "And the Greater Good is God's will by definition, so I don't see why She should be in any way displeased by my actions… I believe." A flash of uncertainty crossed the angel's features, but he shook it off immediately. "Besides, everything that happens anywhere and at any time _is_ part of Her plan, and therefore part of Her will, and therefore good."

"Well, excuse you, but by that ridiculous logic the Rebellion was part of Her plan too, and therefore good, and therefore none of us should have been banished and doomed to eternal spite and damnation. And _yet_."

"No! That is an entirely different matter, and-" Aziraphale stopped talking abruptly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. "Let us not talk about politics. It never ends well."

"Yeah, I wonder why." Crowley crossed his arms belligerently, but he didn't push the argument further. Not that specific argument, at least. "Anyway, I still don't see why you're having kittens over this disobedience thing. If you think God Herself has no beef with you, what's the matter? What's the worst thing your seraphic superiors could do to you, uh? Call you back up to head office and confine you to a boring desk job where you couldn't possibly hinder their holy machinations? Oh boy, oh dear, mighty scary punishment-"

"It's not myself I'm worried about, Crowley!" Aziraphale interrupted him vehemently, hands tightly clasped in his lap. It took Crowley frankly too long to figure out the meaning of his troubled grimace.

"...You're worried about _me_?"

"Of course I am! Desk jobs and bureaucracy will be the last of your worries if you end up within the grasp of a cohort of vengeful demons! They've already tried to destroy you once-"

"No, no no no, you don't get it, it's fine. I'm not in danger!" Crowley exclaimed, stretching the truth roughly to the size of Australia. "They'll never manage to get their hands on me. The top brass wouldn't come up here just to retrieve a small fry like me, they'll just send a couple of brainless grunts now and then. And I'm not calling them brainless as gratuitous slander, they really are unbelievably stupid. Not even remotely a threat."

"You've destroyed a demon! One of your own kind! They won't overlook such an act so easily, for sure!"

"All right, listen. First of all, demons killing other demons isn't nearly as outrageous as you think. Happens every other day. One day you're chatting with Valak from Heat Management about the new strain of flies Beelzebub's sporting and the next day, poof! Someone tells you that he's been shoved into a furnace by a pissed-off Count because of a broken thermostat. Not even worth a slap on the wrist."

"Still," Aziraphale hesitated, "your case is clearly different. It's outright treason! They'll send some skillful operatives-"

"The ones they already sent were the skillful ones! Dukes of Hell, no less! And I dispatched both of them literally in five minutes! Want to know how?" Crowley stood up and started pacing back and forth in front of the bench, gesturing wildly to re-en-act his epic tale of cunning and strategy. "All right, here's how. The holy water you gave me, right? I poured that into a bucket and put the bucket on top of the door of the study, which was ajar - what are you looking at? Get lost!" He added, glaring at a couple of nearby kids who had interrupted their aimless running around to stare at him as he stood poised on the tip of his toes to position an invisible prop on top of an invisible surface. The brats scampered away immediately. "Anyway, Ligur opened the door and _bam_, one Duke of Hell melted into nothingness, just like that. And the second? Well, actually I did have a plan involving holy water for him too, but that one didn't really fly - but then!" Crowley pointed at Aziraphale suddenly and enthusiastically enough to make him flinch. "You called, and I - brilliantly - got inspired by that and trapped Hastur into my phone! ...For a while - but the point is that it was just _that_ easy."

"Why, wasn't that ingenious of you?" Aziraphale said, his eyes shining with such disarming and honest admiration that Crowley completely lost track of his thoughts.

"I- well, yeah, I guess I-" He started, before his brain rebooted and he smacked his forehead in frustration. "No! No, it wasn't! It was dumb! That's my point! A bucket on a door, Aziraphale! Two Dukes of Hell tricked by the sort of pranks that some dumb human toddlers- Oi! Why are you still here?!" He suddenly shouted, as his gaze fell on a bush that did absolutely nothing to hide the same couple of brats he'd just shooed away, still spying on his little pantomime. As they ran away again, Crowley took care of summoning a couple of ringed snakes and sending them on their heels, just to provide that extra zest of entertainment that their afternoon clearly lacked.

"Ehr, you were saying?" Aziraphale asked, eyeing the hissing grass with mild concern.

"I was saying that my esteemed colleagues have the tactical prowess of drunk baboons, and they don't even bother to keep up with what's going on up here. A child with a mobile phone could outsmart them. So no, they're never going to get me." Crowley plopped back on the bench heavily, crossing both arms and legs and deliberately channeling a good three decades of macho cinematography in his stance. "Not on my turf."

"That's reassuring, but it doesn't quite put all my worries at rest. Don't you think we should at least keep a close eye on each other for a while?"

"How so?"

"Oh, just seeing each other. More often than once a decade, I mean. Exchanging information, checking that we're still around in one piece."

"And if we aren't? What if one day I just disappear, uh? Are you going to march into the depths of Hell armed with your non-existent army and your lost sword?"

"I was thinking more of a tanker filled with holy water."

Crowley snorted. "That would be a sight."

"So? What do you say? Once a month? Once a week? At least until things get calmer."

"Oh boy, I don't know if I have all this free time to 'keep an eye' on you. I'll have to check my agenda."

"You're still on a self-proclaimed holiday."

"And do you have any idea how time-consuming that is?"


End file.
